by Nancy Bush
I broke in once to ask him how long he’d been a member and he shocked me by answering, “Four years.”
“Did you ever meet Roland Hatchmere?” I asked curiously.
“You know Roland?”
“I know his daughter Gigi and I know Emmett.”
“Emmett Miller,” he said, nodding. “That was sure a story about Roland, though, wasn’t it? The murder. On his daughter’s wedding day.”
He didn’t seem to know that Emmett was the groom and I didn’t confuse the issue with facts. “It sure was,” I agreed. “I heard someone called Roland from the club’s business office right before he was killed. How’s that for weird?”
Martin frowned. “Who?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. I just heard about it.”
“Well, maybe,” Martin said skeptically. “But he’d just started coming to some parties again. He quit after he got married. Nobody saw him till last summer. He came once or twice. I think he was at the pool party. Maybe not.”
“Last summer…was he with anybody?” I asked casually.
“How come you want to know so much about Roland?”
He sounded more curious than suspicious, so I said, “I know his wife, Melinda. She thinks he was killed by one of his ex-wives. I was just wondering if maybe he brought her here.”
“The only woman I saw him with was Tamara.”
“Who?”
Martin glanced around. “She’s here somewhere. She was working on Roland pretty hard, but I think he wasn’t over his wife. You can tell Melinda that. It might make her feel better.”
“You know Melinda?”
“Only from Roland’s conversation.”
The conversation stalled after that. I mentioned Dante’s name and Martin’s face filled with consternation. Clearly he didn’t think much of the man, either, though he was too polite to say so.
Martin moved in closer to me, taking up more personal space than I cared to give. I sensed if I didn’t ditch him soon he would be stuck to me like a burr for the rest of the evening. Glancing around, I saw Violet and George Tertian yucking it up. He was laughing and laughing, his face bright red. I hoped he wasn’t going to have a coronary.
Martin said, “Maybe I’m reading more into this than I should, but just so you know…” He hesitated, glancing toward the stairs, uncomfortable but hopeful. I hated to shoot him down but it looked like that’s where this was heading. “We could move to a private room? I could order champagne, or more Chardonnay?”
“Well, you know, that sounds…interesting. But right now I need the ladies’ room.”
“We don’t have to,” he said quickly, sensing he was losing me.
I extricated myself with an effort, heading up the stairs. The nearest bathroom had been temporarily designated: Women. I opened the door and was met with an attractive blonde in a shimmery gold dress who was applying lipstick in front of the mirror. I went into the stall and when I exited, she was still involved in application, rimming her lips in a frosty pink color, over and over. I watched her in the mirror as I washed my hands, wondering what the hell she was on.
Two women rushed in, talking and laughing, waiting for each other outside the stall. Then Violet stuck her head inside the door and waved at me to come her way. “Jane. Come here!”
I followed her back into the hall. “It’s Ronnie, remember?”
“The man I’m with is George Tertian. He’s the club president. He’s practically offered me a hostess job, right here at the club!” Her eyes sparkled. “My God. I guess you can’t fight fate. This is what I’m good at.”
“Well, that’s great. What does the hostess job entail?”
“Who cares. I can’t tell you how freeing this is. George knew Roland well, so I had to come clean about who I am. It’s okay, though.”
“Are you sure?” I asked dubiously.
“Absolutely.”
Violet tore back to George and I returned to the bathroom, digging through my beaded bag for my own tube of lipstick. The blonde woman was still at the mirror, but the other two were drying their hands and chatting. As soon as they were gone, my blonde friend stopped rimming her mouth but she seemed frozen and dull.
I couldn’t find my lipstick. I cursed my failure at all things girl, met the eyes of the blonde in the mirror, had to settle for touching at my eye makeup with the end of my pinkie, examining the nonexistent results. “You okay?” I asked her.
“Yes…”
“You don’t seem okay. You want me to let someone know you’re in here?”
“No,” she said abruptly, glancing past me to the door.
Her sudden panic made me look over my shoulder. “All right,” I said, wondering what the hell was up with her.
She focused on me, as if for the first time. “Your name’s Jane? You’re new here.”
Thank you, Violet. I could hardly pretend to be Veronica now. “This is my first time.”
“Have you met anyone interesting?”
She was about as full of life as a bag of bricks, but she seemed keyed in on whatever my response would be. “Martin brought me a glass of wine.”
“Oh…good.” She seemed to relax. After a moment, she said, “I’m Tamara.”
I tried not to react. “Doesn’t sound like this is your first time,” I said lightly.
“No.”
I was in no hurry to join the festivities downstairs again, and apparently neither was she. I asked her how long she’d been coming to these parties and she smiled fleetingly. “Not that long,” she said. “But way too long, too. It’s not quite what it seems, is it?”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, you know…” She desultorily waved a hand. “I was that small-town girl hoping to meet the guy who had it all, looks, wealth, a nice car…”
“Where are you from?”
“Down I-5. Ever hear of Brewster Hill?”
I shook my head.
“It’s not really a town. It’s just a—place. My parents have an honest-to-goodness farm there. Beaumont Farms. The best produce around. I mean it.”
I was trying to figure out how to ask her about Roland. Should I just pop out with questions, kind of like I’d done with Martin?
“I thought I was dying there,” Tamara said, turning back to her own reflection, as if she were practicing a monolog. “So, I went out to the big wide world. Then, I went home. Then I went out, and then I went home again.”
She sounded totally disheartened and jaded. I started to think her apathy was due more to depression than drugs. “Maybe you just haven’t found him yet,” I said, since she made this sound like it stemmed from romantic disillusionment.
“Found him?” She flashed me a look, one of her only moments of animation. “The devil’s always around, isn’t he?”
I wasn’t sure if she meant The Devil, as in Mr. Supreme Darkness, or if she were speaking off the cuff. Like the devil’s in the details. Or idle hands are the devil’s playground.
She went back to applying the lipstick as if she were going to be graded on staying in the lines.
“Are you still living in Brewster Hill?”
“As little as possible.” She capped the lipstick with a tiny snap and headed toward the door. “Be careful what you wish for, Jane.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I followed her out of the restroom. I hadn’t found how to ask her about Roland yet, but she was my best bet for information. Maybe she’d been the one to call him from the club, or maybe she could lead me to who had.
She headed downstairs, her gold dress swirling around her knees. A dark-haired gentleman in his mid-to late-thirties stood at the bottom, but she brushed past him as if she didn’t know him. He gave her a casual look, then turned his face toward me.
I had a very real feeling that this was Dante, the man whom women liked but men treated with caution, so I came down the stairs a bit self-consciously. I hoped to hell I didn’t stumble in my shoes. This whole thing about looking good and walking with surety a
nd grace requires way too much energy and skill.
Our eyes met. I had the tingling sensation he was viewing me with X-ray vision, sizing me up. Maybe I was making too much of it, but Dwayne had told me to trust my instincts and every instinct I possessed was sending warning signals down my nerves.
I lost Tamara to a good-looking middle-aged man. Her face was turned to his in a coquettish slant. Either she’d managed to throw off her depression or she was doing a whole lot of acting.
I spent another hour mingling. I could feel Martin’s eyes on me, but I kept out of his range. I managed to insert Roland’s name into a couple of conversations, but I didn’t learn anything further, and mention of Dante’s name earned me the cold shoulder.
I tried hanging by some of the women, but they seemed to collectively view me as a competitor and studiously ignored me. I was thinking about seeing if I could squeeze a few more drops of information from Martin when a male body came up behind me and grabbed each of my elbows with his hands.
He leaned over me and said, “Jane Kelly.”
My heart leapt. I had a slamming image of Keegan Lendenhal. The voice. The attitude. The need for complete power. “Dante,” I said, stepping forward out of his grip and turning to face him.
No surprise. It was the man from the bottom of the stairs.
“You know me?”
He hadn’t expected that. I didn’t like the guy’s proximity. He was that kind of cool customer who moves in close and breathes on your hair. It was all I could do not to hold my position.
He regarded me in a penetrating way. I’m never sure what a guy—a stranger—expects when he gazes at you in that way, as if you’re something to play with. Like this is fun? Like I was panting for him to toy with me?
“You’ve been asking about Roland Hatchmere.”
Well, at least he cut to the chase. “Were you friends with him?”
“No.”
“Did you call him from the club phone?”
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m not completely sure,” I admitted honestly.
“You were talking with Tamara.”
A shiver whispered over my skin. Although he and Tamara had ignored each other, acted like strangers, at a subliminal level I’d registered something between them. An energy. A scarcely leashed crackle in the air.
“You and Tamara are friends, then.”
“We know each other.”
I wondered if Dante might be the devil Tamara spoke of. “Did you introduce her to the club?”
“I’ve introduced a lot of women.”
He was telegraphing something to me. Something he wanted me to know. I had a feeling it was Tamara, or one of the other women he’d introduced, whom he’d asked Emmett’s opinion of. What was his game?
“Is it just Dante, or do you have a last name?” I asked lightly.
“Just Dante.” He smiled faintly. “Like…Satan.”
“Or Beelzebub.”
“You’ve got a smart mouth.”
“Yeah…well…” I murmured, my smart mouth getting dumber. I can’t go with this kind of thing long without wanting to scream something. Like “You’re a psychopath!” With an effort, I curbed that impulse, saying instead, “So, how does that happen? How do you get just one name?”
“How did you get an alias?”
I didn’t have an answer for that one. He obviously knew about Veronica Kellogg. I wondered how he’d come up with Kelly. Violet had only called me Jane.
“There’s a room at the end of the hall. Upstairs. The door’s unlocked. For tonight, it’s my room.”
“Wow. Sounds like a proposition.”
“You want to know who made that call? I made that call. You want to know what was said? Come upstairs and I’ll tell you.”
I didn’t believe him. It was a ruse. Had to be. “Why not tell me now?”
He ran a finger down my cheek. Actually ran a finger down my cheek. I stifled the desire to snap at it like a rabid dog.
“Because I think we could find a lot to talk about. Go on up. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.” He flicked a look past me. “I have something to take care of first.”
I glanced over my shoulder. He could have looked at a number of people, but Tamara was in the midst of the group.
I watched him disappear into another room. After a few moments, Tamara followed. I debated with myself on which action to choose. Go after them, or go upstairs to the bedroom. Upstairs was danger, but I didn’t think I would accomplish much by approaching them together.
I headed upstairs, my pulse laborious with dread. It was a bold, probably reckless move. I should have warned Violet. I should have warned someone where I’d be. My steps slowed as I walked down the long hall with doors on either side. The old house was almost like a hotel. I tried every knob as I walked along, but all the doors were locked. If Dante had a room, probably others did as well, and they probably had their keys to give to a willing participant.
I came to the door at the end of the hall. My heart was pounding. What was I doing? He’d followed me, learned what I was after, used the information to lure me upstairs.
Ridiculous.
I snatched my cell out of my purse and pushed Dwayne’s number. Cell phone use was a no-no at this event, but to hell with that. Dwayne answered and I said, “I’ve met Dante. He says he’s the one who called Roland. He could be lying, but I don’t know. He told me to meet him in his room and so I am.”
“Where’s his room?”
“In the house. Upstairs. I’m going in now.” As I spoke I twisted the knob and let myself inside. I got a glimpse of the cream-colored furnishings. Mostly I saw a large four-poster bed.
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t much, either,” I admitted. “But it’s not like he’s going to do anything to me at the party.”
“Not as long as he thinks you’re Veronica Kellogg,” Dwayne said.
That shut me up.
“Jane?”
“He knows my name and that I have an alias.”
“Get out of there, Jane,” he ordered.
Adrenaline shot through me. “But—”
“Get—the hell—out—now.”
I had mere seconds to get out of the bedroom. Five minutes had already elapsed. There was no escape back the way I’d entered. I stood frozen, my hands useless appendages in front of me, my frantic heartbeats a roaring surf in my ears.
I heard treads in the hallway. Male footsteps.
Three strong strides and I was at the sliding glass door that led to the bedroom balcony. The door opened soundlessly to an itsy-bitsy, terra-cotta-tiled area wrapped by a wrought-iron rail. I looked down two floors. For a dizzying moment I considered jumping, but the patio below was cold, unforgiving stone.
I whirled back to stare across the room. Twelve feet of carpet led toward the bedroom door, the only other exit. From my peripheral vision I caught sight of the maple tree. I glanced over. Too far from the balcony, but just outside the bathroom window.
Quickly, I scurried into the bathroom and threw open the window. One branch was close enough to reach. For an instant I considered climbing down as I was: gowned, bejeweled, wearing the most expensive sandals I ever planned to purchase.
Kicking off the shoes, I threw them out the window. I ripped the zipper of the dress downward, yanked the slinky amethyst dress over my head, sent it flying after the sandals. I tossed my beaded bag after them, hoping my cell phone survived the drop. As I pulled myself through the window, cursing the space that was scarcely large enough for me to wriggle my shoulders through, I heard the suite’s door open. A mewling sound entered my throat but I held it back. I reached for the branch, missed, reached again, arms shaking, fingers splayed.
Dwayne’s urgency spurred me on: Get—the hell—out—NOW!
My fingers connected and I hauled myself out with adrenaline-laced strength. I swung my legs upward to catch the limb with my ankles and hung like a lemur. Then I shimmied to
ward the tree trunk and carefully eased myself down the bole. I lost swatches of skin. My pulse hammered in my ears. My face was wet with tears.
When my toe hit the ground I drew a breath and glanced upward. He was on the balcony looking down at me. In that strange, heightened moment between quarry and prey, I was very, very glad I stood where I was.
Maybe I was overreacting. I kind of didn’t think so.
“Ms. Kellogg?”
Martin’s voice came from somewhere to my right, near the front of the house. I stooped to pick up Violet’s amethyst gown, shivering, glad she’d talked me into the padded, lacy bra, equally glad I’d held out for bikini underwear rather than a thong.
I smiled at him as he approached, hoping my lips didn’t quiver. I could feel the gaze from the man on the balcony boring into the back of my head. I shook out the gown. Stepping into it, I said with forced nonchalance, “Would you mind helping me zip up?”
Twenty minutes later, pacing by Violet’s car, frustrated by a cell phone that no longer worked, I started asking myself why I’d been so completely convinced Dwayne was right. Maybe we both suffered overheightened senses from Keegan. Maybe we were too in tune to each other to think clearly.
I wanted to call him and tell him to pick me up. Waiting for Violet could take hours and I was cold, uncomfortable and faintly embarrassed. But I was not going back inside. I was not going to have to explain myself.
Martin had been a little tricky to peel myself from. He had a lot of questions, the top one being about why I was in my underwear. In a moment of inspiration I told him a centipede fell down my neck from the tree. He recoiled as if I’d burned him. Whether he believed me or not, he definitely understood “bug horror.” At least it had been enough to get me away from him.
There was nothing around this neighborhood but houses. No shops. No restaurants. No convenience stores. I wasn’t sure how far I would have to walk to find a commercial establishment, and I didn’t relish the thought of being alone at night anywhere, especially dressed as I was.